


Excavation

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Kink Meme, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:36:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto has a list.  It's long and has never been written on paper, it's not that kind of list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excavation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme prompt: "Jack/Ianto; necrophilia"

Ianto has a list. It's long and has never been written on paper, it's not that kind of list. The kind of list it would ever be wise to let someone see. The kind of list that sometimes in place of words uses his emotions, sensations, unquantifiable and describable. The list is private to him too, things that he doesn't want to ever confront beyond the flashes of them that appear behind his eyes like a flipbook of sensations and images when he thumbs through the imaginary pages.

It's not the list he's really thinking about right now as he thrusts forward and closes his eyes, grabbing on to Jack's hair for better purchase. Jack's tight and soft in unsuspecting places, really. But the sound of fucking also sounds like the scritch of a pen checking something off on a list.

It's warm and giving and Jack has no choice really, but to stay still, with his head immobile. His eyes are open, and while they don't blink. His hands move when Ianto thrusts too hard for a second, he might have taken him by surprise, but that's doubtful. Ianto's cock is hard and he opens his eyes to roam the planes of Jack's form, smooth skin cooler than it normally would be, ankles in restraints. Toes almost curling a little. His hair is bristly under Ianto's fingers, in the places where it isn't damp and sticky. The silver of the ankle restraints, fashioned from old cyber conversion units, isn't lost in meaning or prettiness.

Ianto's slows his pace because he doesn't want to be finished yet. If he looks up he can see the blinking monitors of Owen's computers, grinding on and on, like he's doing right now in some ways, never stopping or caring, just doing a job, much like he is not right here. This isn't a job, not this part.

Jack doesn't squeeze around his cock, not like he would if he had more control of himself, but every once in a while his back curves, as if Ianto is hitting the right place at the right time. In any other way it might be interesting from a medical standpoint, like a little puppetry with his dick, but it's warm and tight and some part of him recognises that he has to come quickly before he remembers who he is and what he's doing.

He picks up his pace again, and coming is just a thing now, the last edge to grasp to pull himself up the ledge, and he thrusts as far in as he can get, hands in Jack's hair and all the way in, pressing so hard he's probably bruising the flesh that he's slamming into for the last time.

Ianto pulls out and lets his softening cock fall, hang in front of him, bloody and covered in other things. Jack's face is still a mask of shock, unsurprisingly. His fingers twitch again in the restraints, and his body relaxes from its back arching, nerves still jumping a bit, synapses snapping and firing in his brainpan.

Ianto smiles and pats Jack's face by the temple, watches the battered gray matter leak out of the hole he's drilled in the skull at the crown. "As always," he murmurs, "a fantastic shag, Captain."

Jack's foot jerks in the metal ring, but it's the dance of a dead man. For now.

END


End file.
